He Is A Patient Man
by Lotheriel
Summary: Elijah remembers his wild exploits as a young man and muses over values. A different/new canon, extensive history, BAMF Elijah. Warning: MAJOR lemons, including non-con! Rated M for a reason. One-Shot.


**A/N:**

**Warning! This story contains lime & lemons! It is too intermingled with the story to mark separately, so if you do not wish to read an adult themed story, please stop reading now.**

**-o-o-**

**This story grew out of a prompt gone wild. I'm leaving my initial thoughts in here as an author's note. If you don't want this background, feel free to jump straight into the story.**

**_In a dream world, I would be a great writer. As it is, I'm a great song-maker and lyric-writer, but not a novelist. So, here is just what I would so VERY much like to read - and would write if I could._**

**_In my mind Elijah is a leader. An alpha. He knows it, his siblings know it, so he rarely needs to push it. Should he push it, they would fold. I'm basing his character on being Swedish, and having an interest and in depth knowledge of the Viking society._**

**_It ANNOYS me how, in fanfics, Elijah is so often placed in an "older Stephan" frame, ready to do anything and everything to prove to his teenage love that he is there for her. That just doesn't fly for me. E.g. from a logical (my inner canon) stand point. Elijah simply is a BAMF. Not because he is *trying* to be one, he never tries and would be very offended if you thought he did – he just *is*. If you image google BAMF you may very well come up with a pic of Elijah :) But, instead of going on about what I don't like, why don't we let the immortal himself tell the story?_**

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The night would have been dark, but the stars were out with not a cloud in the sky, giving the whole world outside his home an eerie grey feel. Inside a certain study in the Mikaelsson mansion however, the fire lends orange coloring to every nook and cranny it touches. In a comfortable Oxford leather recliner, an immortal being relaxes, allowing his mind to wander down paths he has not walked for centuries. It is funny how she, this short lived creature, stirs memories in him he did not even remember forgetting.

A crooked smirk plays on his handsome face as he can't help but compare his current emotional state to what he had expected from life as a young man.

Much as he wishes he was the better, more moral man, he also can't help but smile wryly as he, for the first time in half a millennium, allows himself to remember his many exploits. Even though many (most?) of the memories that now has him smiling would be considered inappropriate, inacceptable and even cruel in modern times, at the time of the memories creation his actions were neither more nor less than any man of his stature and position was expected to indulge in. The Anglo-Saxon wenches in the villages off the western coast of the British Isles (where modern day Newcastle lies), he remembers them vividly. They were so easy to get to after pulling the boats up on the sandy shore, he and his men all just aching for some release after weeks at sea. As always, the release would come in one of two forms; killing a man or f*cking a woman. A good day he would have both.

He clearly recollects the feel of curly strawberry blond hair (they ALL had strawberry blonde hair in his memory, oddly enough) bunched up in his fist. Funny how easy it is to make a woman arch her back delightfully, just so, if you tug on her hair with precisely the right amount of force. He always did prefer taking his pleasure bending the girl over in front of him, it offers such a delicious view of his hard, veined length sliding in and out of slick folds.

_He can feel himself hardening at the thought, wondering why he has denied himself the sight of this for far too long when it truly is so easily obtainable._

He continues his walk down memory lane and allows the visual recollections to take over.

In his mind's eye he sees shapely buttocks exposed to sunlight as a girl is bent over the nearest flat surface, bulky skirts pushed up over curved hips. Underwear was very unusual at this time, he recalls with fondness, so pulling the skirt up was all it took to get a good look (and feel) of glistening folds holding the promise of heaven to a Viking that just came ashore. He remembers vividly how surprisingly easy it was to make an initially struggling girl ready to take his girth.

He took pride in that. He never asked for permission, and once he decided he wanted to take a girl he would do just that, take her however and wherever he wanted, but while her pleas of mercy fell on deaf ears he ALWAYS made her ready for him before plunging into her. He was not altruistic, oh no, a moaning girl was just much more pleasing than a crying one, not to mention that his sheer size could make the act rather uncomfortable for him, was she not ready. Especially the untried ones would be uncomfortably tight and he had learned early on that plunging into hot wetness was much more satisfying than if she felt like sandpaper. No matter the selfish reasoning behind his skill to make a girl's body betray her to want him, more often than not those pleas for mercy had turned into moans of pleasure long before he buried himself in her. A smirk spreads across his features at the recollection. Yes, he defiled many a maiden even in his pre-vampire days, but he never left them unsatisfied.

_His mind returns to the present day as he realizes his clothes are beginning to feel… restricting. He carefully unbuttons his suit jacket and adjusts himself to allow his groin more room._

Sometimes, when he thinks of it, it fascinates him how hard, nearly impossible, it seems to be even for vampires of some considerable age to realize how old his family is and what this entails. Out of all of the siblings, Kol is the one who sticks the closest to the old ideals, never bothering to adapt to the new age. He can not blame his baby brother for holding on to the values of his youth. He also does not bother explaining to younger vampires, or even worse, those short lived humans, that most of Kol's attitude was not brought on by his transission into vampirism but was simply a sign of the times he was raised in. This attitude was intensified by the change, to be sure, but Kol's conviction that he is better than those he prays upon... that is neither more nor less than what they were taught from the cradle. Ah, the work to explain is just too much – let them believe what they will.

He himself had gone through greater effort to adapt to the changing times, and so it would superficially seem that he was more of a gentleman than his youngest brother.

_Superficially._

His lessons growing up had been the same, after all, AND he is the oldest brother. His due is greater than his siblings. He knows this, they all know this. Unless an example needs to be made he has no reason to push it in their faces. On the rare occasion when he HAD felt the need to push it, they would yield to him. Naturally. Without question.

-o-o-o-

Sometimes they needed to be reminded, that's all. He especially recalls the beautiful Greek girl they had met while living in Athens for a few decades in the 1300's

_Helen? Diana? Not Elena, **surely**?_

that Klaus and Kol had been fighting over for more than a year. Their rivalry led to neither of them getting anywhere, she played their affections as if they were human, and they allowed her to. Fighting. Over a human... (he snorts to himself).

Finally he had tired of their bickering and, despite not actually being very interested, had taken her for himself. It stopped them fighting at least, reminded them of the deference and respect owed to the oldest sibling.

He did not feel the reminder was necessary very often, but when it was, it was complete. She was out of their reach the moment he chose to possess her. He clearly recalls how her shivering, loud moans when he refused to play along with her teasing and to her great surprise simply took her, hard, caused both of his brothers to leave the house, and the country, for more than a year. Like the Anglo-Saxon women of his human life, centuries before, she had looked good bent over too... Like them, she had begged for him. Like them, he had f*cked her good, ah yes...

_He hardens further at the thought and, to release the uncomfortable pressure, allows his hands to carefully open the fly of his immaculately pressed dress pants._

When he called his brothers back and they returned she was gone, of course.

-o-o-o-

It is clearly common knowledge that his family are from Viking stock, but the true implications of this fact seems to be long lost in romantic notions. He and his brothers were no spring chickens even before they were turned. They were not raised in a time of gallantry. No matter how hard he has tried to make those notions his own, they came to be centuries after his birth.

Elijah is 1000+ years old. He has been there, done that and lost his innocence a long, long time ago. It was lost long before he turned, he was a grown man when his mother changed them, not a boy. Considering the time and culture he was raised in, it should come as no surprise that he had killed, maimed and raped for more than 15 years BEFORE he was turned. It was their way, and the only way they knew.

He had married rather early of course, as the eldest son of the local chieftain his responsibility to continue the line did not allow him to dally on the issue, unlike his younger siblings. As a human he sired a fair few children, although most of these were not in wedlock and thus not acknowledged. His wife was a good woman, a strong woman, and despite there having been no love in the beginning of this match of need and convenience, they had had solid trust and respect. He still thought of her fondly. Of course, she was also a delightfully wanton little thing…

Continuing on this line of thought, his mind turns to his regret that he never found his true hearts mate while still alive. Tatia could have been, he supposed, but her choice to dally with him and his brother both had made the possibility of her being wife and companion to either of them nothing more than a distant dream. She was probably not even aware of this at the time, but the way she had played them against each other had disqualified her as a wife long before Esther chose to use her in her ritual.

Oh, make no mistake, they both still loved her passionately, and both would have liked nothing more than to keep her in their life. As a friend, companion, mistress. Not as a wife. She had their love, their devotion and their lust, but their respect? Well, suffice to say; Not so much...

_Oh how he wished she could have been one of the many girls screaming out his name in the throes of passion more than just that once, although the memory of how he HAD made her scream made him even harder. It was a good thing his fly was already open or things would have turned painful by now._

And, in the time of his youth respect for his wife was paramount. It may be hard to grasp from a modern point of view, but back then clan and family was EVERYTHING. This clearly shines through in his, his whole family's, beliefs and attitude of today.

No matter how many escapades he would have had, how many serving girls willingly (and women in the raided villages unwillingly) has felt his touch and brought him the release he considered nothing more than his due, they were no more than the means to that end. When he chose to marry SHE was something else entirely. Love withstanding, she was his mate, his equal. She was nothing like "them".

He slips further into the memory of values long gone – where the differences between the sexes were valued and cherished, not ignored. Oh, how he wishes she could have been there then. That she had been raised in the same way as him, sharing his basic values. Allowing him to love, cherish and respect her as she deserved. Allowing him to worship her, as he was taught. Without apologizing or bending to modern day misconceptions of everyone being the same.

The thought angers him. They were, are, NOT the same. They were equals (unlike the women he would use for his pleasure, she was not his possession) but not the same. She did not do what he did, but her responsibilities and what she did was no less valuable than his. He did not hold the keys to the home, the larder, the slave quarters.

She did.

If she was angry and felt wronged she would refuse him entry into the home, and he may complain to his friends, they may laugh and tease him about it, but no-one would doubt her right to do so. Before he was let back in he would need to grovel. His woman OWNS the home, and her sway there equals and more than equals his power over his crew, his boat, his fiefdom, his vassals. It would not cross his mind to doubt or challenge her supremacy there, not from misplaced gallantry, but because it was HERS, without question.

Without her, what would he be? Without him, what would she be? The power and respect was necessary, for many a reason, but the most important one was this;  
Without her - there would be nothing to come home to. Without her, the very concept of "home" would be no more. Home... home was her domain.

He needed it, but he did not own it. She did. And she kept it safe, for him to come back to. He need never worry when he left, because he KNEW she would run it better than he ever could, in his absence.

o-o-o-o-o

Because yes, he left. He left her.

Every year. For months.

o-o-o-o-o

He took most of the able-bodied men with him, hoisted sails, kissed her passionately and promised to be back in the fall with riches for her. She did not want the riches, the baubles, the gold. She did especially not crave the exotic clothes she knew may have been covering a foreign woman's body before her husband lifted the skirts, raped, and brought the robe back home to her as part of the spoils.

No, she did not want the riches. Not when it meant he left her, for months. But this was what she was brought up to be, and the only reality she knew. In fact, she would think less of him if he did NOT leave, this is how it was supposed to be, how it had been, for centuries.

_Freya, keep him safe!_

The raping, using, killing… Strange as it may seem to the modern day mind, this was never on her mind. It was reality, as normal as breathing. Of course he needed release in his months away from her. He would not ask other women for permission. That was just one way - an important way - that differed them from her. She never doubted his respect. She never doubted he would want her - if she was there to be had. In her absence, others would do. She did not mind. The idea that this might be something she would (should?) object to was still a millennium away. He was hers, in all the ways that mattered.

Who he took his pleasure from and how his pleasure was taken was not an important part of that equation. He never ravaged her. He worshiped her. Sometimes roughly, at her behest, but never without respect. She felt like a goddess in his arms and she knew he viewed her as such.

So he left, and although parts of her mind and her longing may be understood by a woman of the 21st century, most of it wouldn't be. He left, and the responsibility was hers. The weight was all on her shoulders. When he comes back in the fall, right before the storms, he knows the lands have been tended. The harvest is in. The mead is brewing and no matter if his excursions brought wealth or not, they would all eat well through the winter and not need to worry.

_oh Freya, mother of All, please let him come back, this year also!_

Should he not come back, she would inherit everything and no one would question her rights to rule. A woman in this time, assuming she was a Viking woman, was strong, valued, respected, an equal. It would take the rest of the world more than a thousand years to begin mirroring this again. No wonder they were unstoppable, they did not consider half the adult population to be less than the other half. Each had their place and their value, the one no more or less valuable than the other. Maybe this was based in the fact that they had considered everyone ELSE to be less than them, he did not know. Kol still did.

But she was not less. She was equal. The home is HERS. The farms, their produce, and the promise of food all through the cold, dark winter, are **hers**. The serfs are **hers**, even the pretty ones that he might borrow to release tension from time to time. The house and halls are **hers**. Every fall he returns, sometimes showering her with gold and gems, sometimes not, but every fall he returns - and begs her leave to enter their (no, her!) home.

It is tradition old as time. He steps of the boat, a chieftain, a leader without question, and tells his men to stay behind and guard the spoils. Then he walks up to her door. He does not open it, he does not step in. He does not call her name, even though he knows she is aware of his presence, she has known of his arrival for a full day or more. He stays outside the door and waits, a beggar before his own home. He does not own the keys to this door.

No matter how many places he has raided, this is the one place where he will always have the need and want to ask permission before entering. Soon she and he will be alone in the dark, and it will be a different matter entirely. He could not help reveling in the thought of owning her completely, even as it was his turn to beg to enter.

_Oh, and she WOULD beg him to enter her, soon enough!_

He waits patiently - this is her domain, and Elijah is a patient man.

He waits, and if he has done nothing (or nothing worth mentioning, at least) to wrong her, she will come to the door before his fur-clad fingers have frozen to ice. She will look at her husband, schooling her expression into one of strength, not worry, as she scans him for new scars, for new pains yet to heal. She will find them, but she will not allow her need to care for and comfort him to shine through. Not here, not in front of the staff, the serfs, the few of his men that accompanies him to her door. She would never humiliate him by acknowledging his wounds, his weakness, in public.

He sees that she sees, and does not admire her for her strength not to show her cares and her worry. What is there to admire? It is self-spoken. If this was not who she is, and who he is, they would not be mated. She is a warrior queen, a Valkyrie and he would have it no other way.

She allows her eyes scan him thoroughly, slowly, from top to bottom. As if they did not know each other in the most intimate way possible. As if he had not been the one to gently, ever so gently bring her body into full womanhood.

o-o-o-o

Gently, yes... Well, at least he was gentle in the beginning, pleasuring her. No one would be able to blame him for losing control after that, would they? At least she didn't, in fact she seemed to enjoy it. He knows he brought her pleasure, the priestess of Freya taught him well how to please a woman in every way.

The modern day immortal can still easily picture in his mind's eye the first time he laid eyes on her supple, buxom body. She was the first and only woman to be given to as much as taken from. She was the first where he actually **cared** if the pleasure was shared. Teaching her how to please him, learning what pleased her, it had been something worth remembering. She was never afraid of him, not even on that first night, she knew he would cherish her and, even if there was no mind shattering love, that he would worship her body and respect her mind. This was enough, and more than enough.

Of course, he was also a very handsome man, her new husband. She could certainly have done worse.

That first night was the first and only time in his very long life when he prepared a virgin to take his sizable manhood for her sake, not his.

_Ah yes, even the priestess with her extensive experience had not been able to hide her amazement and widened eyes when she first removed his breeches. This should not have mattered but the thought made him strangely proud._

The home may be hers, but in bed, she was his. This was not a matter up for discussion.

He vividly recalls the sound of her voice as he slowly eased into her that first time. He had already brought her to completion, twice. First with his fingers, then with the addition of his lips, tongue and teeth, silently thanking the priestess for her skilled tutoring.

She mewled as her inner walls stretched around him, it was a delightful sound. He gazed deep into her eyes as the tip of his manhood reached that thin but oh-so-important barrier. For the first time, he was asking permission before breaking it. For the first time, he stopped at the barrier, gazing at her, waiting for a sign.

It came in the most delightful way possible. Her knees rose up even higher and her long supple legs crossed around his waist. There they were, with her legs wrapped around him, her arms locked over them, her hands gripping his buttocks, taught and trembling with the mental and physical force needed to not lose control and simply plunge in. The force needed for this was nearly inhuman, as he recalls. She tried to pull his rigid form to her, testing his resolve even further, and stared into his eyes.

"_Elijah. Snälla du. Jag behöver dig. Jag behöver dig så mycket, nu!_"

No man can be expected to keep control after that. Pulling his hips back slightly to gain the necessary momentum, he surged in, breaking the barrier and immediately picking up a gentle (or come to think of it, not-so-gentle) rhythm, pulling his throbbing manhood almost all the way out before plunging back in, burying himself to the hilt in her warm embrace over and over again with ever increasing force.

The spots of blood smeared over his hard length the first few strokes did not bother him, nor excite him as it had so many times in the past when it originated from one whose only reason for existence (in his mind) was to bring him pleasure. It just brought a strange sense of completion as he knew she had asked for him, begged for him, to own her here. She was fulfilling her part of their age-old bargain, submitting to him, in private. She submitted to him, with pleasure and passion. His little minx. Yes, this marriage was not such a bad idea, after all.

He knew from experience that the first few strokes would bring her pain, but that it would pass and morph into pleasure much quicker if he did not stop. Instead he reached down between them, carefully using his fingers to lift the hood of her bundle of nerves, allowing his pubic bone to rub against her already over-sensitive cl*t at every stroke. Her eyes almost rolled back into her head at this delicious pain/pleasure combo and her mewls quickly turned to moans, then to screams.

_**His name had never sounded so much like a prayer.**_

He lost it then. And really, who can blame him? She wanted him, begged for him, and who was he to deny her? He reached under her to grab her firm behind and began plowing into her with all his might, pulling her to him at every stroke.

It only took moments for her inner walls to start fluttering, and when he felt this he allowed his left hand to change its grip of her delightful buttock so that his juice covered pinky could slide into her puckered hole, matching the strokes of his hardened length in her other entrance. The priestess had said this would be appreciated, but still he was not prepared for the effect.

He was shocked as she literally EXPLODED around him! Screaming his name at the top of her lungs, her nails dug deep groves into his shoulder (allowing him a taste of the pleasure/pain too) while her inner muscles squeezed down on his girth so hard it would have hurt, had he not lost himself in blissful release at the same time, filling her insides with his hot essence. He does not know how many times he repeated her name, as a mantra, or for how long he came, he just knows it felt like he was still releasing in her more than a minute later.

The party was still going on downstairs, and as they came to they could both hear the yells of approval and scattered applause of their peers that their very vocal coupling had brought on, celebrating a joyful and successful union of the two most important families in their community. It was only two generations since his family had left Scandinavia to travel east to Novgorod, at the natives behest, and the family ties between the old and the new ruling families still had to be regularly blood bound in marriage.

She blushed lightly under his intense gaze, before breaking into a huge grin.

"_That was…_"  
"_Yes, I know. For me too._"

She grinned again, proud and pleased at having brought this beautiful and well-versed man so much pleasure despite her inexperience, before intentionally tightening her inner muscles. He gasped at the sensation and felt his softening length responding by slowly growing hard again while still buried deep inside her.

He looked at her with great surprise. THIS was new to him, as new as everything else was to her. A woman that wanted to go on, even take control to make it so, right after being deflowered, never doubting her right or his willingness to find pleasure and unity again and again. "I could get used to this", he thought to himself as she used his weakened state to flip them over. She wanted to experience how this would feel with her on top.

If he hadn't been completely aware before, this is when he would have realized what differed his Viking woman from them, all the rest. This… this was HIS woman, and he would do anything and everything in his power to hear her scream his name as a prayer again.

With that thought, he set out to do just that.

o-o-o-o

He is brought out of his extremely pleasant memories and back to the reality by a sudden noise. When he realizes it was just the wind, that had picked up during his reverie and captured the patio door, slamming it closed, he also realizes something else.

His right hand, previously resting calmly on the edge of his very comfortable leather chair, is now firmly wrapped around his VERY hard manhood, slowly mimicking the motions he had indulged in, in her, so long ago. He almost jumps at the realization. He really should not need to do this. Indeed, it has been too long since he indulged.

Making a mental note to find someone to bend over, tomorrow at the latest, he allows his hand to resume the rhythm it held before. After all, it feels good, and who is he to deny himself? He slips back into memory, of how life played out AFTER that first night.

He would LOOK at her. He would take her, own her, please her and make her scream his name – while LOOKING at her. He would bend her over, like he always did to them, only if she asked for it, only at her request. This woman, HIS woman, was to be viewed and worshiped as they reached perfection together. She was not like them. He was never cheating on her with them. Because what he did with them and what he has with her just is not the same. He found only his own release with them. He worships her.

-o-o-o-

He sighs and thinks she would understand this, if she was from his time. He still struggles with the concept of women's-liberation. He has finally met her now, his hearts true mate, a millennium and more down the line. He never imagined he would have to explain such basic concepts to her. No matter how long he is away, no matter what happens during his time away, he is hers. Without doubt, without question. Always and Forever. He has already promised her this, has he not?

He could not help but chuckle privately at his own thoughts, his memories, of how things once were. He remembers and cannot help but compare (at least in part) the power of the home and hearth and the respect that she owned without question, while just across the seas when he went raiding he would never offer a woman (or man) such courtesy. If a man, he would die and he would enter. If a woman, he would just enter. Her home, if she was pretty enough then her, or the other way around, no matter. Yet, in his own home the thought of entering uninvited never crossed his mind.

It has a certain degree of balance, is almost funny, how this compares to his current state of not physically being able to enter a home without an invitation. Back then it was not physically binding as it is now, but honestly he would not have known as the very thought of entering uninvited into her domain would be unthinkable. The one thing that DOES compare, however, is how it can play out once the invitation has been extended.

_(His hand picks up speed as another, and yet another, memory of what had happened once he was invited, in so many different ways and with so many different faces as the centuries piled up.)_

If (When - It was never really a question of if - assuming he had not broken an unspoken rule, and he never did) she let him in, she was completely aware that she gave up control at that very moment.

Just as she would never humiliate him by acknowledging his wounds or pains in front of his peers, he would never dominate her in public. The public life was her domain, and he would have it no other way. The private hours was his domain, and SHE would have it no other way. They both played their roles to perfection, as was expected of them. As they were taught, as it should be done. As no 21'st century being immediately can grasp.

-o-o-o-

War was his. Pain was his. Rule was his. Violence was his. NOW was his.  
Home was hers. Peace was hers. Pleasure was hers. Rule was hers too. TOMORROW was hers.  
They would have it no other way. They never contemplated there could be another way.

-o-o-o-

Elijah opened his eyes, having spent at least an hour lost in the memory and the day dream of a time long lost that would never return. It was not surprising, a millennium will change most things, but he could not help to lament the loss off the clear distinction between right and wrong. This was a new time, a new millennium, and one is not supposed to have such a basic difference between "us" and "them" that raping a "them" girl was nothing more than his due, and perhaps a release from tension, whereas complete adoration, loyalty and respect for a woman in the "us" category was simply natural. He would never hurt her, he would always defer to her in public. He would never harm her authority in any way, just as he trusted her never to harm his.

He would share his secrets and his weaknesses with her, the only one to ever hear them since he had become a grown man and could, or would, no longer share them with his siblings or parents. The weakness of being human, of having feelings, of possibly being hurt could ONLY be shared with her.  
_The one, the only._

He still lived according to the code of honor learned then. He had given up on the thought of ever meeting her.  
_The one, the only._

Part of him had begun chafing centuries ago, when he realized he wouldn't meet her. When he accepted the fact that he would have no one to share the pain with, that he would need to keep it to himself. The only one, who was apparently beyond his grasp, who could be trusted to see his weakness was her .  
_The one, the only._

-o-o-o-

So he gave up. He was, now that Michael was gone, the oldest and most powerful being on earth. Sometimes he questioned why he allowed Niklaus to play pretend to hold the upper hand when they both knew who the elder, stronger and more balanced were... but the question was never long lived because they both knew the answer. Again, he only made an example when there was no other choice.

With great power comes great responsibility, although he DID admit in his heart of hearts that he envied his brothers at times – the younger sibling's right to do as they pleased. He envied the way they could lose control and be completely selfish in their wants and needs. It was rather amusing how this irresponsible behavior, in this day and age, was sometimes perceived to indicate leadership, even dominance, when it was quite the opposite. He and his siblings all knew better. As the elder, he was never free to indulge in his own wants and needs, not unless it coincided with what the family needed.

It did not bother him. What others think, especially not what the short-lived ones, the prey, think. He knows, his siblings all know, and the time when it would be necessary to pull his younger brother back into the fold was coming ever closer. They both knew this, they both knew Klaus may moan and groan and fight it, but he would yield. There was no other option, Elijah had been patient enough.

So no, it did not bother him. What others think. Especially not what the short-lived ones think. So why does it bother him what SHE thinks? It is a disturbing thought.

It was like he lived only half a life. He was constantly raiding. He was on the dragon ship, the captain, these days more in a metaphorical sense of course. People trembled before him. He LIKED that, he would not pretend he did not. But the homecoming. The surrender. The quiet submission to his counterpart that allowed him balance in his existence, this was missing...

In fact, he realized, one reason he would allow Niklaus to run the show from time to time was based on that very feeling. Through more than a millennium of his life (and seriously, how many people got more than a **thousand** years to search?) he had yet to find her, and honestly, by now, he had stopped looking.

.

.

.

Imagine his surprise.

.

.

.

He knew who she was the moment he laid eyes on her. He knew he would surrender, give her anything, in public. He enjoyed her wheeling and dealing. He relished in giving her the power that was, without question, her due as his true mate. He could not expect a safe harbor to rest in if she was not given the power to control it, could he? He smirked to himself when he realized she did not know he never in fact relinquish any power, but that the power was hers to begin with. At least to his mind. He had waited countless generations, eons, for a woman like this, his own Valkyrie.

-o-o-o-

Now only one thing remains to be seen, a question that may take some time to be answered.

Would she sound as he had imagined when, not if, SHE surrendered her body and her soul in private? Would his name be a prayer on her tongue, enticing him to try ever harder to hear it again?

He thinks it will. He can wait to find out.

Elijah is a patient man.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**Translation of what Elijahs wife says on their wedding night (the language is Swedish)**

**"Elijah. Please! I need you. I need you so much, now!**"

_**a/n 2: This is my first ever fanfic, but I will not ask you to be kind. If I'm going to do this again, I want to learn from my mistakes. However, I NEED feedback to know if this is something I should continue. **_

_**Not this story, it is a very long one-shot (6600 words one-shot, whew!) , but it sets the canon, the mythology, of my Elijah. Do you want to read more about him? Maybe of his siblings, back in the day before the plague killed his wife and his younger brother and forced his family to flee across the ocean?**_

_**So, do you want more? I know my Elijah is not for everyone :) Should this be my first AND last fanfic? R&R Please!**_


End file.
